misc prompts for your feels

An abyss opens beneath him, grasping hungrily to pull him down; the same abyss that threatens to swallow him whole at every unwary moment: despair.

Sins, the Inquisitor says, as though with one word he might encompass the uncountable steps which have led here. Sins. Penance. Is that what this world has become for them, then? Penance? Penance to repent for-

A woman sings in a vast cavern behind a waterfall which cannot drown out her song: it carries through the hallways and balconies and chambers, carrying a spell of protection, of devotion to duty. Strength through obedience. Strength through worship. The wards on the enclave grow weak when the god she worships vanishes from the world, leaving a hollow ache in the void he once filled: she sings, she sings, she sings, but the song is an empty echo of itself, ringing off walls that cannot protect her forever, until at last the song fades.

A priest and a spirit succumb to despair, and their temple crumbles around them. Minds shatter and melt like fallen panes of ice, and all that remains is hatred and fear and hunger, clawing at the walls until the priests turn on their leader, fury giving their terror an outlet at last - and they carve him apart as he screams, and the name he screams cannot reach the ears of his god. Salvation will not come. They carve out his tongue. He chokes on his own blood. When at last they cut his head off - hacking and tearing with knives meant only for bloodletting, not this butcher’s work; it is a long and agonizing process, and they will not let him die to escape it - the black oblivion of solitary agony is nearly a mercy.

A goddess writhes on a bloodstained temple floor; her death throes have taken hours, power leaching out of her like blood seeping into snow, staining the world around her. He floats above himself, distant yet content, scarcely believing the culmination of a millennium’s planning has at last come to fruition; she cannot be dead. She cannot. And yet. And yet.The world slides off its axis, heavy and weightless all at once, and he sinks to weary knees, but his twin is there, red and bright with his mother’s blood. It stains his hair. It stains his skin. It suits him, it suits him; this freedom, knowing she is gone, knowing they are free of her - they would laugh, both of them, but the others of the pantheon are still here, and this alliance is fragile, so fragile. The balance of power has shifted. There will be more blood, and soon. Soon.

Sins.

SEND ME A ❣ AND I’LL GAUGE MY CHARACTER’S ATTRACTION TO YOURS AT THIS POINT IN TIME

“No. What? No.”

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧ | Sexual Attraction“I would like to live, if it’s all the same to you; who would kill me first, do you suppose? The Keeper, or Lady Harellan?”

Ask my character "How do you feel about ______?" Can be an idea, person(s), place, or thing, and they'll have to answer honestly.

My muse has to tell nothing but the truth for 10 asks.

Of course our friendship was genuine.

You have a mind unrivaled, old friend. I would have asked no other to aid me in the creation of the Vir Dirthara - not even Falon’Din, for there his own substantial gifts would have been of little aid. 

I regret that you remain bound to Mythal. I regret that your rebellion puts us at odds. I regret that blood must be shed between us.

My muse has to tell nothing but the truth for 10 asks.

A spymaster holds few secrets so dear they cannot be sold for the right price, to the right person. Am I so devoted to the Evanuris that I’ll not trade their secrets should it be advantageous to do so? I am loyal to one man alone.

My muse has to tell nothing but the truth for 10 asks.

Well. This is a surprise: the God of Knowledge is confused.

He considers the question.